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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25190425">Disappearing Acts</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladybug_21/pseuds/Ladybug_21'>Ladybug_21</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>London Spy, Sherlock (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst with a Happy Ending, Fake Character Death, Gen, M/M, Mycroft Holmes IS the British Government</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 08:34:08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,555</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25190425</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladybug_21/pseuds/Ladybug_21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The British Government has gotten very, very good at making sure that the not-exactly-dead bodies stay hidden.</p><p>(In which Alex Turner is very much alive, Sherlock is especially sulky during his Reichenbach leave of absence, Frances Turner becomes unexpectedly protective of Danny Holt, Anthea is unimpressed with everything, and Mycroft is the most glorious of manipulative bastards.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Anthea &amp; Mycroft Holmes, Danny Holt &amp; Frances Turner, Danny Holt/Alex Turner, Mycroft Holmes &amp; Frances Turner, Mycroft Holmes &amp; John Watson, Mycroft Holmes &amp; Sherlock Holmes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Disappearing Acts</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Because I'm shocked that there isn't more fic about this concept, given the proliferation of Mark Gatiss and all things #BritishGovernment throughout both fandoms? Also, for whatever reason, I kind of fell in love with the idea of Mycroft Holmes and Frances Turner as Uneasy Spy Frenemies, who really just want their loved ones to be formally alive and reunited with their boyfriends, but are truly terrible at expressing how much they genuinely care. I own no rights to <em>Sherlock</em> or to <em>London Spy</em>.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Mycroft had always admired the manor that imprisoned the Turners.  He had never said so, however, because he knew that at least one of the prisoners would take the compliment very poorly.  Straightening his suit jacket as he stepped out of the car, he craned his neck upwards at the imposing stone façades behind the scaffolding.  Frances was having some remodelling done, clearly.  Mycroft would be interested to see how things ultimately turned out.</p><p>A movement at the window caught Mycroft's eye, and he saw Charles glaring down at him from a windowpane.  The British Government nodded, and Charles merely sniffed and moved out of sight.  Mycroft sighed internally.  He had always been under the impression that Charles Turner hadn't cared much for his son, in the first place.  If even he was displeased with Mycroft, then Mycroft could only expect an even colder reception from the person he was actually here to see.</p><p>"Mr Holmes," stammered the housekeeper as she emerged from the front door.  "We weren't expecting you."</p><p>Mycroft nodded, subtly rolling the neck of his umbrella between his fingers.</p><p>"Where is she?" he asked.</p><p>"In the hedge maze, sir," replied the housekeeper, bobbing into a slight curtsey.</p><p>He nodded in return and made his way around the back of the house.</p><p>Mycroft had been into the hedge maze once before.  If he recalled correctly, it was the day he recruited Alistair Turner for MI6.  He had come up from London to speak with Frances about the whole matter, and this was where she had been at that time, too.  Mycroft could tell that she was pleased, that she thought that this would mean that her son was reaching his full potential.  (Mycroft was well aware that Frances Turner also felt that this meant that her son was reaching the potential that <em>she</em> could have had, but there was no need to bring the failings of his predecessors into the conversation.)  A lingering unease had hovered over Mycroft that day, over how little control the young man seemed to have over his fate; after all, the best recruits rarely were the ones forced into MI6 by their parents, and Mycroft knew that he would have to monitor the young Turner for any signs of resentment that could become a liability.  At the end of the discussion, Frances had requested that Mycroft keep an eye on her son, and Mycroft—already having his own reasons for wanting to watch the young man—had agreed with a curt nod.  He knew that Frances Turner was far too clever to trust Mycroft, but they both also knew that she had no choice.</p><p>That had been a short and courteous conversation.  This one, he presumed, would be similarly short but infinitely more fraught.</p><p>It took Mycroft longer to navigate the hedge maze than he would have expected or liked.  He imagined that a psychoanalyst might read into this a hesitancy to speak with Frances Turner, and he imagined that this might be a correct reading.  Soon enough, however, he spotted the woman up ahead, sitting on a bench and reading.  She glanced up as she heard him approach, and her expression immediately darkened.</p><p>"Get out," she said icily, rising from the bench.</p><p>"Not even the pretence of hospitality, Mrs Turner?" Mycroft replied.</p><p>"And what good would pretence do?" Frances sniffed.  "I'm sure you arrived here perfectly aware that I would like nothing better than to gouge your eyes out with my fingernails."</p><p>"I did not come here to ask your forgiveness," Mycroft said.  "We did what had to be done.  You are no stranger to this world, Mrs Turner.  You understood the consequences of playing this game.  So did he."</p><p>Frances said nothing, but after a long moment, she sank back down onto the bench with a long, shuddering sigh.  Mycroft couldn't imagine that she would start weeping in front of him, but he found himself holding his breath nonetheless, hoping very much that she wouldn't.</p><p>"He was my son," Frances said softly, not looking at Mycroft.</p><p>"He may have been your son, but he was our liability," Mycroft replied curtly.  "I regret that things ended the way that they did, truly.  He was one of the most exceptional minds I have ever seen, and I do not give that praise lightly."</p><p>The ghost of something that might have been a pained smiled whispered across Frances's face and quickly disappeared.</p><p>"Why are you here, Holmes?" she asked coldly.</p><p>"We expect Daniel Holt to come looking for answers, sooner or later," Mycroft informed her.  "You will receive him.  You will tell him nothing of what actually happened to the man he knew as Alex Turner.  We expect you to help him buy into the falsehood that your son's predilections were truly reflected by the attic in which his body was discovered."</p><p>Frances shot him a furious glare.</p><p>"And why should I ever help you or your minions again?" she demanded.  "You've murdered Alistair.  I have precious little left to lose."</p><p>"You will cooperate, because life goes on," Mycroft reminded her without a trace of sentimentality.  "You are not the only one who has had to pick themselves up from tragedy and somehow continue, Mrs Turner."</p><p>Frances nodded ever so slightly, a grudging concession.  She would have heard about Sherlock, of course.</p><p>"No fuss," Mycroft reminded her.  "You will receive Daniel Holt, and you will play your part.  I trust you will not fail."</p><p>He left her there on the bench and began his retreat out through the twists and turns of the hedge maze.  <em>You will play your part, Frances Turner</em>, he thought, <em>and I will play mine.</em></p><hr/><p>Mycroft truly prided himself on not getting caught up in the petty emotions of others, but it was incredibly draining to have to field the grief of those needlessly in mourning.  Frances Turner at least was cut from the same cloth as Mycroft—overly rational, rather stoic, bound to the expected protocols of behaviour.  Her grief, although distressing, was contained enough to be manageable.</p><p>John Watson's, on the other hand, remained overwhelming.</p><p>"Was this you?" he asked Mycroft, anguished, slapping a newspaper into Mycroft's hands when Mycroft came round to check on his brother's erstwhile flatmate.</p><p>Mycroft calmly unfolded the paper and did not let a trace of emotion slide across his face as he skimmed the headline about Alex Turner's gruesome demise.</p><p>"Well?" demanded John, his voice rising.</p><p>"Do you really wish to know the answer to that question, John?" said Mycroft softly.</p><p>John's face twitched, and he suddenly sank into a chair, carefully lowering himself down to protect his bad leg.  He glared moodily off into a corner of his new flat for a moment, and then he slammed an open palm into the arm of his chair.</p><p>"Damn it, Mycroft!" he cried.  "How can you live with yourself, after doing something like this?"</p><p>"You do not know who Alistair Turner was, John," said Mycroft.  "He was more dangerous than you could ever begin to believe."</p><p>"Yeah, and he wasn't even thirty years old when he suffocated to death in a trunk."  John shifted in his chair, winced as his leg twinged.  "You study it in medical school.  What happens when someone asphyxiates slowly.  I'm sure you've read all about it, though, I don't need to tell you."</p><p>Mycroft waited.</p><p>"Would it make you feel better if I said that I was sorry?" he offered finally.</p><p>John stared at him.</p><p>"Unbelievable," he muttered, and he pushed himself to his feet.  "Look, stop checking in on me, Mycroft.  I appreciate that you're trying to do the right thing, and I know I can't stop you if you start tracking me on CCTV or what have you.  But I'm through with all of this.  I'm through with pretending we're friends, or that I can trust you.  I'm especially through with your pretending that your precious government is any better than Moriarty, because when things like this happen, it's bloody well not.  I don't want to see you again.  It's not..."  John's voice caught.  "It's not like it's going to bring him back."</p><p>Mycroft sighed slightly as John hobbled across the room and wrenched open the door.</p><p>"Goodbye, Mycroft," he said firmly, and Mycroft had no choice but to leave.</p><p>He was irritated, of course; he'd expected John to recover from the shock of losing Sherlock so much more quickly than this.  But John had always been somewhat sentimental.  And maybe a bit of being left alone was what he truly needed.  Mycroft stood on the pavement outside of John's new home, so much more orderly and predictable and <em>boring</em> than the flat at 221B Baker Street.  Around him flowed the disorderly rush of London, which nonetheless could still be broken down into predictable patterns with the right algorithms and formulas.</p><p>Not for the first time, Mycroft casually considered what would have happened if he had chosen to be kind and courteous, if he had let Sherlock talk him into letting John in on the secret.</p><p>"The surest way to guarantee your public death is for the person who is closest to you in this world to believe unequivocally that you are dead," Mycroft had reminded him curtly.</p><p>"<em>You'll</em> still know I'm alive," Sherlock had grumbled back.</p><p>"Yes," Mycroft had replied, half a smile quirking his mouth.  "But very few people on the planet can crack me, as you know.  John Watson, on the other hand, can be read like a book, and he's far too honest to be able to pull off a deception like this for as long as you'll need.  He cannot know that you are alive, Sherlock.  It's the only way to keep you from truly ending up dead."</p><p>Mycroft glanced up at the window.  John was watching him with a resolute frown.  Mycroft nodded to John and, although it was nowhere near Christmas, walked away twirling his umbrella and whistling the Coventry Carol, piercingly enough that John could hear.  But John was too lost in his grief to recognise the tune, and even if he had, he might not have connected it to his brush with Irene Adler and to the decoy plane filled with dead bodies that was waiting to be exploded.  Mycroft sighed slightly.  If the very slow people around him weren't going to pick up on the obvious hints that he left them, then he felt he had no further duty to try to comfort them.  John Watson knew where to find Mycroft, if and when he needed him.  For the moment, the British Government had more important things to worry about.</p><hr/><p>"They've gone rogue, you said?" Mycroft repeated, trying not to sound impressed.</p><p>"Still heavily surveilled, of course," replied Anthea, clearly bored.  "She knows it, obviously.  He probably does, too, much as he's trying to pretend that it's not happening."</p><p>"You would <em>think </em>that, after his <em>not</em> dying for such a long time, he would realise that we're not planning to kill him," Mycroft sighed.</p><p>"There was his friend," Anthea reminded Mycroft, idly swiping on her phone through what might have been a dating app or might have been a top-secret national security database.  "The older ex-spy who ended up hanging by his neck from a tree."</p><p>"Ah, yes."  Mycroft grimaced; he hated it when Anthea casually reminded him of his very infrequent failures.  "Well, you would think that he might have surmised by now that the reason he's still alive is because we're keeping a closer eye on our counterparts now, after being blindsided by them like that."</p><p>"You really think that neither of them have worked things out by now?"</p><p>Anthea still sounded like she couldn't care less.  Mycroft was now over eighty percent sure that she was on a dating app, since Anthea at least occasionally came across things on the top-secret national security database that piqued her interest just slightly.</p><p>"He's relying on her having told him the truth," Mycroft said slowly.  "He's good at sensing when people are lying to him, and he believes her, because so far as she knows, she <em>has</em> told him the truth.  She's been disenchanted with our intelligence agencies for long enough that, if told that her son was left in that trunk to die, she'd have no reason to disbelieve it.  Especially since the forensic evidence was all so well done, of course."</p><p>Anthea smirked, since this was Mycroft's way of paying her quite the compliment.</p><p>"How is Mr Turner?" Mycroft asked.  "Settling in well enough?"</p><p>"I haven't heard any complaints," shrugged Anthea.  "Although I'm not sure he's thrilled with the living arrangements."</p><p>"Naturally," sighed Mycroft, because he had expected as much.  Sherlock, no doubt, was being Sherlock to the nth degree out of pure spite—because he had wanted to tackle this mission alone, and because Alex Turner was almost as smart as he was but had infinitely better social skills, and (most importantly) because Alex Turner was living in his space and Alex Turner was not John Watson.  Mycroft often wished that his younger brother would grow up a bit more, but in this particular case, Sherlock's immaturity might provide just a touch more incentive for both of the not-exactly-dead geniuses to finish up all this Moriarty business sooner rather than later.</p><p>"Hmm."  Anthea frowned.  "I can't decide what I think of this one.  Think he's worth the bother?"</p><p>She turned her phone screen around for Mycroft to see, and the British Government scowled when he saw the face of an asset that MI6 had been considering recruiting for several months now.  He clearly needed to put slightly more work into deciphering his personal assistant, sometime in the very near future.</p><hr/><p>Mycroft was already very good at picking out figures in crowds, but Frances Turner's posture was distinctive enough that it took him less than five seconds to spot her even in the bustle of Oxford Street at rush hour.  He put his phone to his ear.</p><p>"Black car behind you," he said and then he hung up.</p><p>Thankfully, Frances was nowhere near stupid enough to try to disappear into the crowd.  She looked almost resigned as the car door opened and she slid into the backseat next to Mycroft.</p><p>Mycroft let an uneasy silence settle over them as the car pulled back into the road.</p><p>"I'm glad to see you're looking well," he said finally.</p><p>"Are you here to drag me back to prison, or to kill me outright?" Frances replied.</p><p>"Neither," said Mycroft candidly.  "It's been some time since we spoke, and you're much easier to reach in London than you are in the countryside."</p><p>Frances said nothing, only continued to stare rigidly ahead at the back of the seat in front of her.</p><p>"Why are you doing this, Mrs Turner?" Mycroft asked, genuinely curious.  "Even if Daniel Holt refuses to give up, surely you know better?  We know that he's tried to contact every news outlet with a mailing address, to no avail.  And you know perfectly well that, even if he were to secure an interview, we have our ways of ensuring that it's never published.  Where does that leave you?  The rantings of a grieving parent on an online blog, somewhere in the aether of the internet?  Although you know full well that we could very easily shut that down, too—which I suppose would leave you with nothing more than pamphlets to be handed out on street corners, a very credible source of information..."</p><p>"Are you finished?" Frances asked coldly, still refusing to look at Mycroft.</p><p>"I could go on," Mycroft informed her, with a shrug.  "But I suppose you're equally aware that you and Marcus Shaw will never be able to reconstruct your son's research, no matter how many years you work on it together.  You'll never have your own lie-detecting algorithm to show the world, to prove that you were right all along.  I'm frankly a bit surprised that you let Daniel Holt drag Professor Shaw and his President and Provost back into everything.  Has loss truly driven you to the point where you would needlessly endanger more people on a hopeless mission?"</p><p>Mycroft noticed Frances's hand clench slightly, and he supposed that it was unnecessarily cruel of him to compare her recklessness to her husband's professional failures.  Still, he <em>was</em> trying to drive home a point.</p><p>"Danny Holt still has hope that we can and will tell the world what happened to my son," said Frances very quietly.  "I have nothing left to live for, besides that hope, even if I cannot fully share it."</p><p>"Mr Holt should tread very carefully," Mycroft replied.</p><p>Frances's head finally snapped towards Mycroft, and she glared at him.</p><p>"You wouldn't dare touch a hair on his head," she hissed.  "Danny Holt and Marcus Shaw are not threats to you, Holmes.  I'm the only one who has an inkling of what you're capable of doing.  If you intend to break up our endeavour through further bloodshed, the only person you should even consider removing is me."</p><p>"Of course," replied Mycroft, bored.  "Although, naturally, without your income to support him, it will be rather difficult for Holt to obtain the medicine that he needs, won't it?  It would be killing him either way."</p><p>The car slowed to a halt.  At the slightest of dismissive nods from Mycroft, Frances shot a final venomous glare at the British Government, shoved the car door open, and shut it with a firmness that sent a message while still being perfectly in control.  Mycroft allowed himself a little snort of smugness as the car moved on.  He was convinced that Frances Turner would one day fully applaud the disappearing act that he, Mycroft Holmes, had orchestrated.  And Mycroft was more excited than he ever would have admitted at the fact that, very soon, his illusion would pay off before a most appreciative audience, when the vanished bodies started reappearing.</p><hr/><p>Danny knew that he was in danger, every night that he continued to sleep in Scottie's house.  It was a miracle that they hadn't already arrested or killed him here, but since they hadn't, Danny had to assume that he should keep trusting his luck.  Maybe they wanted to keep him alive, for some reason.  Maybe they already considered him dead.</p><p>Frances had been by earlier, to see how he was doing.  Nothing ever really changed in their updates to one another, but Danny appreciated her willingness to keep up the pretence of hope, for his sake.  He <em>knew</em> that she still believed that the mission was doomed to fail, knew that she was right.  And yet Danny also knew that, against all rationality, Frances was clinging to the same futile desire that he was, to see Alex's murderers exposed before the world.</p><p>"Danny," she said, turning on the doorstep as he saw her out.  She paused, then pulled out her pocketbook and stuffed an ungodly amount of money into his hand.  "Look after yourself."</p><p>It was odd, but Danny might almost say that Frances had grown somewhat fond of him, over the course of their very unusual alliance.  He knew that she would never fully forgive him for being the reason that Alex lied his way into an early grave, but he knew equally well that Frances now blamed the people who had stuffed Alex into the trunk for his death, far more than she blamed Danny.  Upon occasion, he had detected from Frances something that might have almost been gratitude, for the fact that he had shown Alex love as she never could.  Pensive, he watched her depart into the night.</p><p>(If Danny had been listening to his intuitions at that moment, he would have realised that it was the last time that he would ever set eyes on Frances Turner.)</p><p>Danny closed and locked the door, then collapsed on the sofa with a sigh.  He counted the money, gaped, then counted all of the bills again.  It was more than enough to pay for his living expenses for the next year, medicine included.  He was wandering Scottie's house, wondering where the hell he could safely hide such a windfall, when the doorbell suddenly rang.  Danny stuffed the bills into his sock drawer—it would have to do for the moment—and darted downstairs to see what Frances had forgotten.</p><p>When he opened the door, however, it was Alex standing there, offering Danny a small, shy grin.</p><p>"Alex," breathed Danny, taking a shaky step backwards.</p><p>Alex stepped over the threshold and closed the door behind him.  Danny stepped backwards again, but Alex held up one hand, palm towards Danny.  Slowly, Danny held out his own hand, let his palm brush against Alex's (warm and soft).  Their fingers slowly entwined, and Danny's breath caught in his chest.  And suddenly the two were pressed to each other, mouths frantically seeking one another's lips and skin, fingers clawing into the heat of each other's bodies.  Danny could feel the tears burning hot on his cheeks; he knew this had to be another one of their illusions, he <em>knew</em> it; but in this moment, he didn't <em>care</em> what the consequences were, because for these few minutes, he could believe that this was Alex come back to him, that he was able to hold his soulmate in his arms one last time, and Danny could die happy, if that was the case.</p><p>But by the time Danny's breathing had finally slowed back down to normal, he somehow was still alive.  And, far from disappearing, Alex—or the man who looked like Alex and moved like Alex and fucked like Alex—held Danny close, and Danny listened to his heartbeat's steady thrum.</p><p>"Tell me this isn't a dream," Danny murmured, his cheek sticky against the sweat on Alex's bare chest.  "Tell me this isn't just another one of their tricks."</p><p>"If this be magic, let it be an art / Lawful as eating," Alex quoted, his full lips curled into a smile.  His eyes were closed, but when Danny shifted so that he could gaze at Alex's face, Alex opened his eyes, then brushed his fingers against Danny's jawline as if mapping his partner's features with his hand.  "It's real, Danny.  <em>I'm</em> real.  I'm so sorry, for abandoning you like I did.  I wish there had been another way.  Everyone was watching you, and so they couldn't risk your knowing that I was alive.  No-one would really believe that I was gone, if <em>you</em> didn't.  But I'm back now.  And, if you'll agree to it, I'll never leave you again."</p><p>"But... how?" Danny asked.  "You... I saw..."</p><p>"You saw me dead."  Alex's expression grew solemn, and he shifted his eyes away from Danny.  "I can't explain how they did it, Danny.  There's a lot that I can't explain because I swore that I wouldn't.  But in this case, I literally don't <em>know</em> what they did.  I was already gone by then, taken away to do the work that they needed me to do."</p><p>Danny nodded.  He knew that Alex was never going to say a word about what that work was.  It didn't matter, so long as he never left Danny again.</p><p>"Alex, your research..."</p><p>"Gone, I imagine?"  The corner of Alex's mouth twitched upwards.  "It doesn't matter, not where we're going."</p><p>He sat up and took Danny's hand in his own.</p><p>"Danny, they let me come back to you only because they believed that you would be willing to leave everything and everyone behind and start a new life with me, somewhere far away from here," Alex said seriously.  "It took me a long, long time to convince them, but the person who arranged it ultimately was convinced that you loved me enough to agree to that.  It would mean saying goodbye forever to Sara and Pavel, even to Scottie."</p><p>Danny stared at Alex at the mention of Scottie—they clearly had a lot to catch up on.  But, for the moment, Alex needed an answer, and there was only one that Danny could give him.</p><p>"Yes," he said, leaning forward to kiss Alex again.  "Yes, of course.  I've spent months trying to get back at them for killing you, Alex.  Even knowing that they might kill me for it.  I don't want to live for anything but you."</p><p>Alex exhaled in relief and gently ran his fingers through Danny's hair.</p><p>"God, I've missed you," he sighed, but then he shook himself.  "Right, so.  A car will pick us up in fifteen minutes.  We're not allowed to take anything other than the clothes on our backs, and I suspect they'll make us change en route to the airport.  We have to leave all electronics here, of course.  They're going to stage your death, too.  It's safest for us both to start again somewhere else, if we're both dead."</p><p>Danny nodded.  A pang of longing shot through him as he thought of Sara and Pavel, of Claire and of Marcus Shaw—and especially of Frances, who had already lost her son and now would lose Danny, as well.  But Alex, noticing the look on Danny's face, pulled him close and held him for a long moment while Danny said his quiet goodbyes to the people who would miss him.</p><p>They didn't say much to each other as they dressed, both filled with a combination of joy and anxiety over what was to come.  Danny had continued wearing around his neck the encoded, now-wiped flash drive left by Alex, just to have something of Alex's close to him at all times.  Now, with Alex's hand clasped in his own, Danny pulled the flash drive from around his neck and dropped it onto the coffee table.</p><p>"I'm ready," he whispered, and Alex kissed him again as the lights of the car that would take them to the airport flared through the window.</p><hr/><p>For reasons that Mycroft would never be able to explain, it was infinitely more stressful to have his idiot younger brother alive and flouncing madly about London in broad daylight, than 'dead' and creeping through the seedy undergrounds of any number of dangerous cities in the dark.  Perhaps it was that, normally, if Sherlock was in London, Mycroft could count on John to look after his eccentric flatmate.  But John was still extremely bitter about Mycroft's role in the whole matter of Sherlock's supposed death and was petulantly avoiding Mycroft's presence and communications.  Sherlock, for his part, wasn't behaving much better.</p><p>"Something's off with John," Sherlock sulked at his brother, the first time they saw each other after Sherlock's official return to the world of the living.  "He <em>punched</em> me, Mycroft!"</p><p>"I did warn you," Mycroft sighed, not even attempting to hide his eye roll.</p><p>"<em>And</em> he's insisting that he's fallen in love with some <em>woman</em>."  Sherlock huffed, his arms crossed.  "When did John ever think that he did things like that?!  It's almost enough to make me miss the insufferable but reliable <em>romanticism</em> of someone who believes in <em>soulmates </em>like..."</p><p>"<em>Don't</em>, Sherlock," Mycroft snapped, his eyes flashing, because even if he was ninety-nine percent sure that 221B Baker Street wasn't bugged, one never could be too careful.</p><p>At least Sherlock and John Watson would make full amends eventually, Mycroft had no doubt.  He also was reasonably convinced that John would quickly forgive Mycroft for doing what needed to be done.  But for those first few weeks, Mycroft was so preoccupied with keeping Sherlock from running into walls in frustration over his erstwhile flatmate that he forgot all about Alex Turner.</p><p>Alex Turner's mother, however, did not forget about Mycroft.  He never did quite figure out how Frances was able to get a message to Anthea.  But when the British Government was summoned to the manor, he thought it only courteous to rearrange his diary so that he could comply.</p><p>"Apparently, you were willing to come back to prison without any dragging involved," he remarked, seating himself across from her on a couch next to the fireplace.  (The hedge maze had burnt down some time before, which meant that Mycroft had actually been invited into the house, for once.)</p><p>Frances regarded him coolly.</p><p>"Once Danny was gone, there was very little point to my remaining in London," she replied.  "I identified the body for the police.  I attended the funeral.  I daresay I was more upset than both of his parents put together, and then some.  You did warn me about what would happen to him."</p><p>"I don't suppose you're attempting to thank me?" Mycroft asked archly.</p><p>"A heartless, manipulative bastard like yourself?  Unlikely."</p><p>"I see we're back to being very honest with each other," sighed Mycroft.</p><p>"I can't imagine you would ever be honest with me, Mycroft Holmes."  Frances hesitated.  "Although I suppose I do owe you congratulations.  For your brother's triumphant return to London from the dead."</p><p>Mycroft's face did not so much as move a muscle, but internally, he smirked.  <em>Well done, Frances Turner.</em>  He knew that she would never again take MI6 at their word about an alleged death, not unless she personally saw the life leave the other human being's body with her own two eyes, and with no time or space for sleights of hand.</p><p>"It is good to have him back," he said impassively.  "Thankfully, he was able to eliminate the threat that prevented him from operating in the open throughout.  We thought it safest for him not to exist any longer, until we knew that he could return safely."</p><p>Frances nodded.  Mycroft could see her making the conversions in her head.  There was no way that the threat posed by numerous extremely lethal foreign intelligence agencies could ever be contained enough to risk a return, not when so many of them genuinely had wanted to kill or blackmail Alex Turner.  The fact that Alex's skills had been an asset to Sherlock's dismantling of Moriarty's networks had been a happy coincidence to how everything was timed; Alex Turner would have ended up dead or 'dead' regardless.</p><p>Thankfully, Alex Turner was no longer Alex Turner, but instead was living under a new name, somewhere far away from London, doing work that had nothing whatsoever to do with his former life.  He was safe.  As was his partner, whose name likewise had been changed, who had been informed on the plane ride that the positive HIV tests had been a sham to convince him all the more of the British government's heinousness.  Whose dogged pursuit of the truth about Alex's death had finally convinced Mycroft that Danny Holt would leave everything behind for Alex's sake, as Alex had not been able and willing to, if it meant giving up Danny.  The two were different people from who they had been in London, except for the way that they still held hands as they walked together along the windswept beaches of their new home.  From what little information Mycroft was able to receive, they sounded incandescently happy.</p><p>Frances leaned back against her couch, studying Mycroft with shrewd, narrowed eyes.  Mycroft knew that Alistair Turner had not appreciated his mother's unorthodox means of demonstrating love and devotion; the young man no doubt would have preferred someone overbearingly affectionate and doting like Mycroft's own Mummy.  But no small part of Mycroft hoped that Danny Holt—who by all accounts had grown attached to Frances, in his own unusual way—had by now helped Alex understand the extent to which his mother always had and always would love him.  Frances Turner would never see her son again, and she knew it.  But perhaps distance meant that her son might one day forgive her as much as she deserved.</p><p>"This is the key to the room where Alistair spent most of his time, as a child," Frances said finally, pulling something from around her neck.  "My husband keeps telling me that it's foolish, bordering on maudlin, to continue to wear it, since my son is lost forever.  Perhaps he's right.  The room is locked, and it would be wisest for me never to enter it again, to do my best to forget that it exists."</p><p>She held her hand out, and Mycroft extended his palm to receive the key that she dropped into it.</p><p>"Alistair Turner is dead," she said to Mycroft, looking him directly in the eyes.  "And yet I must somehow continue.  I give you this key to prove that it is my intention to move on without him, Mr Holmes.  Do with it what you will."</p><p>Mycroft said nothing, only dropped the key into the pocket of his waistcoat and stood with a nod.  He did not know if he would ever have the key delivered to Alex or Danny; he suspected that Danny would care about receiving it far more than Alex, at any rate.  But he would keep it, for Frances Turner and all that he had made her suffer, even if he understood that she forgave him for it.  The gray sky opened up as the car pulled away from the manor, fat raindrops splattering down onto the plastic sheets waving in the wind from the external scaffolding.  Perhaps Mycroft would have to pay Frances another visit sometime, if for no other reason than to see how the remodelling was progressing.</p>
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